My heart flutters. I set my book down and curl into his lap, wrapping an arm around his neck. At first, he found such intimacy awkward, but now he settles me close with an eagerness I find irresistible.
I find Njål irresistible.
26.
To be fair, I don’t even try.
There’s no reason to deny myself when I want him this much and I’m finally recovered. But as I tug at his shirt, he clasps my hands, stilling them suddenly. His heart races beneath my palms, but I hope he’s not afraid of me? Njål must know that if he’s not in the mood for bedsport, that I won’t press the matter.
Eyes wide, I stare at him, startled because he’s never reacted that way to my touch before. “Is something wrong?”
“You need to rest more and shouldn’t exert yourself so soon after your illness,” he says gently.
That doesn’t ring true, and when he averts his gaze, I’m positive he’s lying.
I relax, as if I intend to comply with his edict. The moment he lets go, I pounce, pulling his shirt open at the laces; that move reveals deep gouges in his flesh, barely scabbed and with evidence that they’ve recently been oozing. He tries to push me away but he won’t use brute force, and I discover wounds on his arms as well—and at such an angle that it seems impossible that they were self-inflicted.
“You’ve been fighting.” Njål says nothing as I slide off his lap and take a step back. “But you can’t leave and we’re the only ones here. Aren’t we?”
Clearly, one of those things is not true. As I reconsider our interactions, I’m sure he said he’s been tortured by being trapped here, and he’s mentioned the unbearable solitude, but I don’t know if he ever expressly said he’s the only one here. There could be other prisoners he avoids. He ordered me to stay out of the east wing, but . . . what if it’s not a secret so much as it is for my own protection?
Still, he’s silent.
“Or do you claim that Bart inflicted that much damage?” It’s a test.
I know damn well those injuries didn’t come from goat horns, and if he lies to me about this, after trying to keep me from uncovering his wounds, I won’t be able to trust anything he’s said so far. And that . . . that would be heartbreaking, because as of now, he’s the only person in the world that I did believe in.
Slowly, he shakes his head. “There’s a reason I told you to keep out of the east wing. I stay away as much as I can, but sometimes the call is overwhelming, and I lose myself. It’s worse when I’m drinking, as I did when you went away.”
“I don’t understand! Can’t you just tell me?”
“No. I wish I could, but it’s impossible.” Such a despondent tone—I’ve never seen him look this hopeless, eyes downcast and shoulders bent. His posture speaks of abject defeat. He wants to spill everything, but he can’t.
Perhaps he means it literally. In the old stories, people could be compelled to silence, not to speak of certain things. Could this be part of his curse? On impulse, I close my eyes and switch to spirit sight, checking Njål over as I did Tillie. And I find grim and terrible threads, woven through him like the careless stitches they make in a dead man’s wounds, only caring about making him presentable for burial. But that’s not all. There are multiple tethers, showing me all too clearly how bound he is to this place. Considering all the binding threads, it’s a miracle he can even make it to the portcullis. Between these threads and the barrier, no wonder he can’t pass through. And he’s been cursed for so long that it’s become part of him in a way that the tendrils weren’t for Tillie.
It would take me days to unravel this, even assuming I could survive the ordeal. I don’t know if Njål could either, for Bitterburn does seem to be sustaining his life, and separating them would free Njål, but he’d also die in the process. Because his natural body is unfathomably old. The minute the magic stops preserving his life, I suspect he’ll return to the dust he would already be, if not for the curse.
What am I to do?
With an aching heart, I take his hand. His head comes up in surprise, and he regards me warily. I think he imagines that this is where I draw the line and decide he’s not worth the effort. Has anybody ever fought for him? Fought hard?
“Amarrah?”
“Let’s tend your wounds. You needn’t suffer alone anymore. I’m with you.”
He seems bewildered as I tow him to the kitchen, where I boil some water and wash all the rents in his chest and forearms. I watch the softening of his expression as I tend to him, the light of hope returning. Actions speak so much more than words or promises. This, he understands. I’m not giving up on him, and I never will. I cut up one of the smocks he brought me and use the linen strips as bandages. There’s no medicine, as he said, only soap and water, but surely this is better than nothing.
“You’re not angry?” he asks, once I’ve finished.
“Why would I be? You said you can’t tell me. That’s not a lie. I confirmed the bindings on you through my own abilities. Those tethers are ancient, and you can’t break free simply because you want to.”
He lets out a long breath. “I have tried.”
“I know.”
Now I do. I’m not just taking his word for it. I’ve confirmed that there are multiple restrictions on his freedom. My poor, precious Njål.
Before he can don his shirt, I rise on tiptoe and pull him down for a kiss. This time, he doesn’t argue that I need to recover more. Njål kisses me back, his lips soft and rough at the same time. I part for his tongue, because
